I enjoy the loneliness and appreciate the option of using my school's sports facilities for exercise after work. The sweat drips as I pedal mercilessly, tricking my body. After all, despite my efforts, I haven't moved a centimeter. What a waste. The device has tricked me yet again. And I seem to be resistant to learning.
Despite the podcast I am listening to, the atmosphere is calm. I think back to last Friday when, sitting in my car, I was unhappy about going home. Unusual, you might think, but I am someone who voluntarily joins classes during his time off. It might baffle students and colleagues alike, but I don't want to sit and wait. I want to interact. I want to inspire. I want to make a difference in the lives of those students. I want to lead by example. I want to show them that I care. And there is so much opportunity I see. So, I don't want to leave. I want to stay until I fall asleep standing.
Patience is not always my friend, nor is restraint. As I consider myself an advocate for children's rights, I jump to intervention when I feel those rights are not being met. I have upset many teachers in my life, not intentionally, but because I put the interests of the children first—and sometimes that includes disagreeing with what teachers do. I know what works. My confidence is based on years of work with students who were deemed difficult. A mistake, I argue, because children are not difficult. Instead, the grown-ups might just not know how to deal with them appropriately.
In the process, my motivation was undermined time after time. I wasn't supposed to intervene; I overstepped boundaries and mandates, I overestimated myself, I wasn't diplomatic enough, I caused too much trouble, so they said. The list goes on. Frustration grew as I couldn't do my job to the best of my abilities. And yet, I keep going. Because at least I have a voice that is being heard, while many children do not. No matter how hard it might be for me, it is much harder for them without an advocate on their side.
Now, once again, I have started working at a new school. I can't help myself: Despite my position as a language support assistant, I am not just a bystander. I make myself heard in class. The sad thing is that, based on my experience, I am waiting to be called to my superior's office for a talk. I expect to be told that, once again, I am not doing what I am supposed to do and that I should be more passive in class—despite the noticeable effects my interventions might have.
Alas, there is hope that this time it will be different. Every adult at my school has to wear a lanyard with a name tag to be recognizable. Different stakeholders get different colors, with teachers’ lanyards being white. Even though I am just an assistant, mine is white too. For the first time, I am actually employed by a school, whereas I worked for external providers in the past. It may sound insignificant, but it carries meaning. It makes me feel as though I am equal and can finally be heard. Most importantly, I am in frequent contact with the teachers I work with. I don't mean to criticize them; I mean to support them and make their job easier. After all, as a social worker human behavior is my focus, especially when working with groups. Maybe for the first time in my professional life, I have met a group of people who get it.
So, I am full of hope, and with it comes plenty of motivation. I look forward to going to work every morning, and I might regret the end of school on Friday.
I want to make a difference for those who are different. After all, I know what it feels like to be ostracized for not having the "right" shape and form—and how it can burden a person to feel like nobody understands or cares.
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